They have names, these bits,
pieces in rubble's wake.
Mary... Bill... Ryan... Anne
The list continues as anonymous
parts are sifted, lifted,
bagged, tagged. Without
the names there is no
pain. Anonymity is kinder.
When I say the names
black body bags, free-swinging
on crane hooks, grow faces.
I hear the faces scream anger, lost
potential; fear spilling
from constricted throats
already dead.
I wish not to hear the names
but their wailing will not leave me.
Once named they demand
attention; my quiet
life system interrupted,
my rural cocoon torn.
I am swinging